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I rolled my eyes. “Overachiever.”
His lips twisted. “You’re taking this better than I thought.”
“Probably the drugs. They’re wearing off,” I replied honestly, staring around the hospital ward that was something from a nightmare.
Or an episode ofThe Blacklist.
I’d only woken up in one of these joints once before, and I had to say, I hated it.
We drew out the big guns when someone was badly injured,illegally, and waking up like this was just horrendous and something I wouldn’t wish on an enemy. Being in the middle of a black space in a bright area that was covered up in plastic sheeting made me feel like the kid inE.T., when the house was all excluded.
Fuck, I’d hated that movie, and that goddamn alien still visited me in my dreams.
Reaching up to rub my eyes, I muttered, “The drugs make everything bearable, I guess.”
Brennan snorted. “Don’t get any ideas. We’ve already got one junkie in the family.”
I grunted. “Aidan ain’t no junkie.”
“You’re a fool if you don’t think he is. Just because he isn’t shooting up and doesn’t have track marks all over his body doesn’t mean he isn’t an addict. We’re pussyfooting around him—”
I raised a hand. “I can’t deal with this right now.”
Brennan winced. “Sorry, bro.”
“No. It’s okay. We need to do something about him, you’re right. But I just got my ass handed to me. You need to remember that.”
He pursed his lips. “You were reckless.”
“Maybe.”
As one of the lieutenants of the Five Points' Mob, I often got my hands dirty. Brennan too. It was part of the job, part of the life.
We were high-ranking—the highest because our father trusted no one more than he trusted his boys—but we were still involved with integral parts of the puzzle, even though in most families like ours, the heirs were untouchable, rarely getting involved in wet work.
Things had devolved a few nights ago. Aela O’Neill—a blast from the past if ever there was one—had been visited by an MC Prez’s daughter.
The kid had discovered that her partner had been kidnapped by theFamiglia, and the Italian cunts were going to kill him unless we helped rescue him.
While we sure as fuck were no white knights, the Hell’s Rebels MC was renowned for the quality and their level of production of ghost guns—a type of weapon that had no serial number on them, so they couldn’t be traced.
When we’d cut a deal, we’d gone in and saved the fucker, but I’d gotten shot up in the process. I knew for a fact that we’d lost another of our men too.
A sad day.
And even worse, my body hurt like a fucker.
In my own way, I was used to pain though. We all were. Knife fights, gun fights, fist fights—they were par for the course.
That was my life, and I didn’t want—
My jaw clenched.
I shouldn’t think about that crap.
Couldn’t.
Because if I did, I’d do something stupid. I’d be kind or something. I’d think of the son I didn’t know existed and not of the family, and family was everything.
